


Miles

by torinosu



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-20 01:17:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20219401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torinosu/pseuds/torinosu
Summary: In his entire six thousand years on Earth, there is one thing Aziraphale would never have thought would happen, and that thing is, he is actually starting to enjoy riding in Crowley’s car.He likes how relaxed Crowley gets when he drives, one hand on the wheel and a small smile on his face. It’s not often he smiles.Aziraphale can’t help but watch him instead of the road.





	Miles

**Author's Note:**

> ***

In his entire six thousand years on Earth, there is one thing Aziraphale would never have thought would happen, and that thing is, he is actually starting to enjoy riding in Crowley’s car.

He likes how relaxed Crowley gets when he drives, one hand on the wheel and a small smile on his face.It’s not often he smiles. Not soft like that anyway.

Aziraphale can’t help but watch him instead of the road.

“Can’t you look out of the window?” Crowley grumbles, “instead of scrutinising my driving?”

“Looking at the scenery going by so quickly makes me uneasy” Aziraphale fires back, but turns away, in case Crowley happens to see the blush he can’t fight off of his cheeks.

*

“I know how you feel” Anathema says as she places a delicate teacup in front of Aziraphale, one sunny afternoon when he decides to pop in for a visit, “I always get so on edge when Newt insists on taking me out in that rickety old thing” she nods towards the window, where Newton’s little three wheeled Reliant sits in the driveway of the cottage, “Even if he has replaced the door, finally”

Aziraphale smiles softly, “I enjoy it when he gets annoyed at me for insulting his driving, and when I call his music be-bop” he inhales the herbal aroma of the tea, and takes a sip.

“It’s my own witches brew” Anathema says, and then laughs when Aziraphale eyes his cup with suspicion, “I picked the nettles myself” she smiles at him softly, looks at him like she knows something he doesn’t, but doesn’t say another word.

*

He sits in his favourite armchair in the bookshop and listens out for the rumble of Crowley’s car. It’s become routine since they saved the world, perhaps even before then, but now he can be upfront about it, even if it’s just to himself. A small part of him misses the covert meetings in St James’ Park, but he can admit that this is better, the whole ‘being out in the open’, thing.

His tea ripples a bit when Crowley approaches, like the water in that film about dinosaurs Crowley made him watch because Newton Pulsifer had apparently told him it was fantastic. A bit farfetched, in Aziraphale’s opinion. They still haven’t realised the fossils were a joke, the humans, but he’s not about to tell anyone that.

He can hear the music from outside as well as the engine, but both sounds cut off just as Freddie Mercury is declaring that love is an old fashioned word, and he stands and brushes off the front of his trousers, and goes to open the door.

Crowley is leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed and his hips cocked and it does flippy things to Aziraphale’s stomach, like he’s swallowed a dozen little grasshoppers.

“I could hear the be-bop from here” he says over the pounding in his ears and delights in Crowley’s immediate scowl, “You’ll go deaf”

“Then I’ll just miracle my hearing back” Crowley says with a shrug, “there’s no point in listening to music if it’s not loud”

“I don’t know, there is something to be said about a soft piano concerto”

Crowley looks at Aziraphale over the rim of his sunglasses. The yellow of his eyes reflects the dim light of the bookshop, and the grasshoppers double their efforts to spring around his insides. He thinks about the way Anathema Device talks about Newton Pulsifer, and he thinks about love being an old fashioned word and he’s always been a bit old fashioned, in every era they’ve lived through, together.

“I lo-“

He stops, and Crowley raises a slender eyebrow, stands up a little straighter.

“I wonder if we could just go for a drive” He says finally, and Crowley agrees but makes it very clear that he thinks Aziraphale is off his rocker.

*

(Once, on one of their first visits back to Tadfield, Anathema referred, in casual conversation, to both Newton and Crowley as “our husbands”, and the phrase has rattled round Aziraphale’s skull ever since, as if his mind just cannot let go of that notion)

*

Crowley drives like he usually does. Fast, and constantly lamenting the lack of winding country roads in London. He avoids the motorway, though, and with good reason, Aziraphale thinks.

“Where are we going?” Crowley asks eventually, after swerving to avoid colliding with the back of a Volkswagen Polo.

“I don’t know” Aziraphale admits, “I don’t think I really want to go anywhere” He pauses, looks at his hands that are twisted in his lap, “I like it here, I think. I like it here a lot”

“On the A40?” Crowley says incredulously.

“I love you”

He thought that if he couldn’t say it when Crowley was looking at him then the best time might be while he was looking at the road.

The car swerves suddenly and violently towards oncoming traffic and Aziraphale thinks that maybe that wasn’t the right moment. Crowley manages to right the car just as a lorry goes screaming by, horn blaring.

“Angel” Crowley forces out through gritted teeth, “_timing_”

“Sorry”

Crowley’s shoulders relax a bit, but his grip on the steering wheel remains white-knuckled, “I...too, though. Me too”

*

“Since when?” Aziraphale asks once Crowley has parked up the car. They’re near some woodland somewhere south of London now, it’s secluded, there are beech trees and it’s getting dark. They got there in record time thanks to Crowley’s driving. He drove with purpose, even though they had no real destination in mind.

“I don’t bloody know, do I?” Crowley snaps at the windshield, the tips of his ears red, “maybe ’67? Perhaps even before that? The Globe? Hell, the Garden?”

Aziraphale watches Crowley’s sharp profile, he looks like he’s grinding his teeth.

“Darling” He says, soft, and Crowley finally, blessedly, turns to look at him.

Aziraphale reaches up slowly and slides Crowley’s sunglasses from his face, folding the arms and gently placing them on the dashboard. Crowley’s eyes are wide and so yellow in the burgeoning dusk.

“You don’t have to look so frightened” Aziraphale says and Crowley scoffs, his usual bravado leaking through.

“I’m not _frightened_, Angel”

Aziraphale leans forward, over the gearstick, and kisses him.

*

Crowley pants into his mouth as Aziraphale works his hand over the length of his cock.The Bentley’s windows have steamed up like the scene in that film about the Titanic they’d watched together once. Aziraphale had asked Crowley if the ship sinking had anything to do with him, and he’d insisted that it hadn’t, though he did admit that Celine Dion was his fault.

“That song, everywhere” He’d said then, spreading his hands, “getting on everyone’s nerves”

“Angel” Crowley says against Aziraphale’s lips, “I won’t be able to last much longer if you keep going like that”

“That’s the idea, darling” He replies, and he’s never felt as wrecked as he does in this moment. He runs his thumb twice over the head and Crowley comes, impossibly hot, over his hand. They’re both breathing heavily and there is a weight low in Aziraphale’s stomach, a stir.

“What about you?” Crowley gasps, his hair damp and stuck across his forehead. Aziraphale brushes it away gently with his fingers, miracled clean. He runs his thumb over Crowley’s bottom lip and looks him in the eye.

“Take me home, my dear”

*

Crowley’s long legs wrap around his waist and inside him is so hot, sweltering, but Aziraphale doesn’t ever want to be anywhere else. His bed in his little flat above the bookshop is large, and they’re settled right in the very centre of it.

Crowley kisses Aziraphale’s neck, runs his tongue up the column of it, as his fingers dig into his shoulders and he breathes out hot puffs of air at every snap of Aziraphale’s hips.

“Angel” He repeats, as if he doesn’t realise he’s doing it, “Angel, Angel”

The pressure low in Aziraphale’s stomach builds to a breaking point, and he comes with a gasp, his hips stilling. He leans down and kisses Crowley fiercely; their teeth clack together, and reaches a hand between them.

He touches Crowley gently, and he comes, scratching Aziraphale’s shoulders with his fingernails. They still and just look at each other, Aziraphale still inside Crowley, and they breathe harshly, Crowley vocalising quiet ‘ah’s on every exhale.

Aziraphale kisses him as he pulls out, and rearranges the duvet over them both, tucking it around their bodies and keeping his arm resting across Crowley’s stomach.

“My Angel” Crowley says, so very quiet.

“I know, darling, I know”

*

“There’s something different about you two” Anathema says, handing Aziraphale a tall glass of Pimms, full to the brim with strawberries, cucumber and mint leaves, all of which he suspects she grew herself.They watch Crowley and Newton for a self-indulgent moment, while they argue over the proper way to light the barbeque. Newton turns away for one second and Crowley makes a two foot flame flare out of the grill. Aziraphale smiles fondly and blushes when he catches Anathema’s eye. She grins knowingly, and sips her drink.

“I suppose we’d better reign in our husbands a little” she says, “before they set my entire garden on fire”

“Yes” Aziraphale says, warm, though not from the alcohol or the inferno in Anathema’s little garden, “I suppose we should”

*

In the car on the way home, Aziraphale tells Crowley that Anathema refers to them as though they are married, and that she has done so for a while. Crowley’s ears go red, and then redder still when Aziraphale suggests, with a hand on Crowley’s thigh,

“Perhaps we could find somewhere to park the car for a bit”

**Author's Note:**

> This was entirely self-indulgent (that is, I just wanted to write them getting it on in the Bentley)


End file.
